


A Mother's Truth

by greenfairy13



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gertrud Kapelput Lives, Gertrud's POV, Last Minute Salvations, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, background gobblepot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfairy13/pseuds/greenfairy13
Summary: Gertrud sees her son differently than anyone else in Gotham. And even if she doesn't, she'd never admit it.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot & Gertrud Kapelput, Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	A Mother's Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Le_Noir (Psycho_Chiquita)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psycho_Chiquita/gifts).



> My dear, I'm sorry this birthday present is such a belated one. I sincerely hope you'll like it!

Gertrud Kapelput is in denial. Nobody in their right mind would argue on that. Not even Gertrud - if she was in her right mind. 

Sadly, or luckily for her, she left the shores of reason decades ago and set sail for the faraway land of delusion. It’s not like she had ever intentionally lied, she only liked to bend reality to her will. On some days, that would work out in her favor, on others, she would have to dive deeper into her own mind to achieve the intended goal. 

So no, Gertrud wasn’t _lying_ for her son Oswald when police showed up for the first of many times to follow. She was simply telling her very own truth. One that didn’t necessarily overlap with reality. 

At this point, the frail woman is already used to being frowned upon. Despite the skeptical look on the agents’ faces, she opens her door widely, allows for them to step inside, and to judge the few belongings she managed to save over to this new life she’s living now. She shepherds those condescending officials into her living-room, pretends not to note how they wrinkle their noses at the cobwebs and the dust covering once invaluable furniture. If they only had the slightest idea what castle her decor had once graced, what family she belonged to, they wouldn’t….

Instead, Gertrud tilts her head, offers them coffee, and listens to them telling her lies about her beautiful son, Oswald Cobblepot, son of Gertrud Kapelput, grandson of Imre Kapelputh, Earl of a land long lost. She huffs out a laugh, a sound that only means to hide the offended, undignified noise she’d else make. 

She smiles tightly as she gracefully motions for them to sit down, tunes out as they start making wild accusations how her clever, kind, compassionate, caring, precious boy is supposedly part of the mob, making his way ever so slowly up the ranks. Gertrud can’t suppress an unladylike sneer once they don’t let go of their delusions. She looks over at her boy’s photograph and shows them the door. Back home, that menial task would have been up to one of her valets, but here in America, she used to be a servant herself, a cook for a family who had only known what it means to be rich for three generations. If they had only had known the Kapelputs go back to the middle-ages!

Gertrud grits her teeth remembering how the Van-Dahl’s dismissed her, carrying the legitimate heir to lands and castles the family has no concept of beneath her heart. Despite _her_ dire fate, Oswald had always been destined to become a King. But certainly not one of blood and terror. As if a delicate soul like his could….But then Kings come with a certain strength. 

There is more to it than only rumors, things she can’t unsee even if she wants to. Gertrud would be blind not to note the bruises and hematomas covering her son’s face and chest. Her fingers tighten in her darling’s hair as she applies more shampoo, trying to wash away the horrors he must have gone through. She clings to him in a way only the truly lost and lonely cling to another human being. After all, he’s all she’s got left, isn’t he?

And he’s such a beautiful, beautiful boy, right? The women must be tripping all over themselves for a slight opportunity to bask in the sun that is her only son. It’s her greatest fear, that one day some painted hussy will waltz right in and snatch her boy away. As inexperienced as he is, she’d only take advantage of his good heart and leave it broken. 

Her fingers stiffen when he suddenly turns to her, eyes shining brightly, and mentions some new _friend_. Gertrud purses her lips. She knows the look in her boy’s eyes, recognizes it immediately, as it mirrors the expression she used to wear on her own face almost 30 years ago perfectly. It’s the expression of a believer in front of an icon, the look of a person with faith in a greater being, in a savior. 

Her heart almost stops when he reveals the one to have stolen his heart to be a cop. It’s the worst scenario, even worse than him running off with a greedy whore. “Don’t ever trust a cop,” she mumbles as she gently lets warm water run over her child’s head. Once upon a time, it had been a corrupt cop who had dragged her from her home, pregnant, and penniless. “They are bad news,” she adds, and her kid hums in agreement, unconvinced. 

She thinks about the agents visiting her mere days ago, stares at a fresh bruise covering his back, and tries imagining her boy being what they claim him to be. It’s a lie, of course, it is, has to be, yet if there’s even a slight chance, the cop is toying with her darling’s heart and life. 

“He’s different than the others,” her Oswald adds, finally calming Gertrud’s racing nerves. If her boy, a boy so different from all the others, so special, so _unique,_ says so, the cop must be. After all, wouldn’t Oswald be able to recognize one of his own? Sighing deeply, she accepts how unlikely it will be for her to ever have grandchildren carrying Oswald’s features.

One week later, she can’t find it in herself to look away any longer. Gertrud demands an explanation for the ever-increasing bruises littering Oswald’s delicate skin, for the awkward gait, the pained expression on his face whenever he as much as takes a hesitant step. 

She’s appalled at those dots of black, blue, and green, can’t help but trace the outlines of the wounds covering her child’s body, doesn’t even dare to ask what those finely-knitted trousers he all of a sudden is able to afford might hide. Oswald merely smiles in response with an expression so forced it looks painted on. 

“I joined a boxing club,” he explains easily, and Gertrud raises an eyebrow at her son. She can’t recall her Oswald, this slender, elegant figure, ever being interested in such barbarous activities. 

Frowning worriedly, she takes Oswald up on his offer to introduce his new _friends_ to her. 

“Mother, as the owner of Gotham’s most famous nightclub, I need to be able to defend myself. As you are well aware, we’re unable to hide our successes from jealous eyes in a city like this.” 

Gertrud’s face lights up. How she could have ever doubted her son is beyond her. Of course, Oswald’s words make perfect sense. 

“Please, mother, allow for me to dissipate your concerns,” he tells her, head cocked to the side, looking just as innocently as he had on the day he informed her he had gotten a scholarship and she wouldn’t need to work double-shifts any longer to pay off his school fees. It had been unheard of until this moment, a fourteen-year-old receiving the Wayne-aid for gifted pupils, but her Oswald had always been remarkable. Of course, they had to be hush-hush about it, refused to honor him during an official ceremony, but it had undoubtedly lifted a great weight off both their shoulders. 

Gertrud nods in return and decides to surprise her boy the other day. The party greeting her once she places a basket filled with various treats from her home-country is nothing like she would have expected. Those men are nothing like her Oswald, not well-behaved, for sure not nobility. One of them flashes a smile at her, a golden tooth shines in the dim light, and Gertrud’s frown increases. Another one gets up, offering her a stiff bow, while her son fidgets worriedly behind him. 

“Mother, this is Mr. Gilzean,” he explains, clearly nervous. The bulky man grins encouragingly while taking the basket from her hands. He looks at the wonderful supplies and trips all over himself to express his gratitude. Gertrud falls silent, tries to make sense of the other figures occupying the room, and wipes her worries away once more. She can’t help admonishing them just a bit though when she decides her eyes practically hurt from all that heavy gold those men decided to wear around their necks and in their mouths. 

“It isn’t dignified to put your wealth on the table as you are, gentlemen,” she tells them while the one being introduced as Gilzean offers her a glass of champagne.” 

“This is America, mother,” Oswald replies gently as the other men look somewhat sheepishly at her. 

Her boy’s words are almost enough to dissipate her worries again. _Almost_. She decides to keep an eye at his contacts and starts visiting Oswald’s club regularly. After all, it’s a beautiful place, her son is a wonderful host, she’s being treated like the royalty she is, and she’s allowed to sing again. 

The men, Oswald’s ‘friends’, clap politely whenever she enters the stage, and encourage her to keep going. The traitorous voices in the back of her head keep telling her they are simply being polite, or thankful for the food she keeps bringing. But then one evening one of those cumbersome men walks up to her, tears in his eyes, tells her how thankful he is that she keeps looking out for them. Crossing himself, he stares up her, awe written clearly all over his face, and vows to protect her with his own life. “You have become a mother to all of us,” he confesses. “Us Italians honor a mother,” he adds, refilling her glass. 

Gertrud smiles benevolently, but her boy gives her reason to worry again when the infamous cop shows up at the club. The man named Jim is stern. His shoulders are straight, his jaw is set tight, and her boy seems nervous whenever he is around. Oswald pulls him into a corner, whispers something into his ear, and gestures at her. Gertrud is irritated. Nobody has the right to force such a reaction from her Oswald! 

For a moment, the blonde man looks confused, and then, his shoulders sag. He puts on a smile, even if only forced, and bows for Gertrud just like the rest of his men. She doesn’t know what his visit is about, but she knows when a man bends to the will of another. His tone is reserved yet respectful when addressing her, the tone of a man trying to make a good impression. She studies him intently and decides he’s not the worst company for her son. Solid. Simply, but well dressed. Not a painted whore. 

Gertrud bites her lip though when his body language changes again, when he cages her Oswald against a wall. Her eyes narrow when witnessing the way he keeps manhandling her boy but she also sees other things. She notes he’s always standing a tad bit too close to her Oswald, even when they are not talking, how their bodies are almost constantly being angled toward one another. She observes the blonde grabbing Oswald’s wrist, how he bites his lip when doing so, and the genuine worry he tries to hide. The way the blonde touches her boy is forceful, yet protective, indecisive. 

Stepping closer, she wants to say something but then changes her mind as Oswald locks eyes with her. “This is not what you think, mother,” he’ll tell her later, and she’ll indulge him. She’ll always indulge him. 

The next time Gertrud visits the club, she tries to see the place with the cop’s eyes. The man, Jim, he has clear eyes, the kind of eyes that see everything while hers are almost constantly glossed over. 

She spots a new figure, a man with black hair who obviously has no concept of buttoning his shirts properly. Putting on her biggest smile, she saunters over, toys with her hair, and leans over the table, shoving up her cleavage in the process like a common hussy. The moment she lays eyes on that man, Sal Maroni, Gertrud is worried about her son and starts flirting as if her boy’s life depends on it. And then she notes the deep, genuine fear etched into her Oswald’s features. She doesn’t want to ask, and she knows he wouldn’t want to answer, so she accepts another glass and curls her hair around her finger. 

The fear eventually fades from her beautiful son’s face as does the man she once met. What remains, though, is him constantly mentioning the name Jim. At times, the name is spoken in awe, at times it’s spoken in disdain. Gertrud sees him on the TV sometimes, righteousness and determination written all over his features, and she repeats to her boy how the man will be bad news one day. Oswald shrugs her off but she catches his wrist. “My boy,” she tells him. “My love for you is blind but it also derives from devotion. Does that go for him, too?” 

Oswald sputters, clearly flustered, and doesn’t reply. Once he finds his voice again, Gertrud is already busy recalling the lyrics of a song she learned when she was little. 

Mere weeks later, Gertrud’s devotion is being put to the test when another one of Oswald’s acquaintances kidnaps her and forces her into a tiny cell. She scoffs when they truly think her dingy surroundings will intimidate her. She notes the camera in the corner, starts pacing the room. Of course, she’s afraid. And she’s angry. She keeps banging at the walls, yelling out to anyone who might hear her how this must all be a terrible mistake, how she’s merely the mother of a well-respected club-owner. Nothing that could happen would convince her in any way that this isn’t the truth. And now the world has proof of her conviction, too. 

Her misery ends, eventually, when her Oswald shows up, an entire army in tow. Her eyes light up then when she recognizes how he really grew into the king she always knew him to be. But the snake, Galavan they call him, is sly, and it almost ends in blood and tears - but almost. 

The reinforcement arrives just in time, and Gertrud can’t help but flinch and curl in on herself when a single shot echoes through the basement she had been kept in way too long. There are blood and cerebral matter now covering her face. A beautiful woman with long, black hair is staring lifelessly at the ceiling while her son and the other man start shouting. 

Oswald is completely out of his mind, wants to lunge forward, knife already in hand, when a heavy hand reaches for him. It’s that cop again, Jim, grim and, unmoving as ever. He steadies her boy, grounds him with as much as a touch even when he behaves in a way she never witnessed before. This is definitely not her boy, this howling, bawling animal that consists only of pain and fear. 

“She’s alive, Oswald,” the blonde growls as her son keeps forgetting himself. Gertrud reaches for her child herself, holds him close as he breaks down completely, and continues to shout out horrifying threats. He wants to escape her grasp, and she has no doubt his intentions are anything but pure when he turns towards Galavan again. 

Stiff as ever, the cop merely ignores him as he cuffs Galavan, takes his price with him to another cell much like Gertrud’s. 

He’ll later testify how her son, Oswald, tried to kill him. And Gertrud will face him in court, unable and unwilling to recall anything in detail. She’ll cry and argue. Where she’ll be emotional, the cop, Jim will remain bereft of emotion. With a straight face, he’ll tell his very own truth how he found Oswald and Gertrud huddled together, terrified of the man now being dragged away forever. 

Gertrud will smile in relief then. When it comes to her Oswald, she now isn’t the only person with her very own truth. 


End file.
